"Next at Waterloo those Frenchmen fought, Commanded by brave Bonaparte [pronounced 'paught'], Assisted by Field Marshal Ney-- He never was bribed by gold. But when Grouchy let the Prussians in It broke Napoleon's heart within. 'Where are my thirty thousand men? Alas, stranger, for I am sold.' He led one gallant charge across, Saying, 'Alas, brave boys, I fear 'tis lost.' The field was in confusion with dead and dying woes. When the bunch of roses did advance, The English entered into France-- The grand Conversation [_sic_] of Napoleon arose." To signal that the song was done, "Hitchbiddy" dropped the tune on the last line, and in calm, direct, matter-of-fact recitative announced that "the grand Conversation of Napoleon arose." In the fifty years during which that song has been sung in the Maine lumber-camps, no one has ever displayed the least curiosity as to that last line. Away back, somewhere, a singer twisted a nice, fat word of the original song, and it has stayed twisted, and no one has tried to trouble it by idle questions. "Hitchbiddy's" most rapt listener was Foolish Abe of the Skeets. The shaggy giant squatted behind the stove beside the pile of shavings he was everlastingly whittling for the cook-fire. It was the only task that Abe's poor wits could master, and he toiled at it unceasingly, paying thus and by a sort of canine gratitude for the food he received and the cast-off clothes tossed to him. A mumbled chorus of commendation followed the song. But the chopping-boss, his humorous gaze on the witling, remarked: "I reckon I'll have to rule that song out, after this, 'Hitchbiddy.'" "What for?" demanded the amazed songster. "It seems to have a damaging and cavascacious effect on the giant intellect of Perfessor Skeet," remarked the boss, with irony. "Look at him!" Abe was on his knees, stretching up his neck and twitching his head from side to side with the air of an agitated fowl. "We'll make it a rule after this to have only common songs, like Larry Gorman's," continued the boss, with a quizzical glance at the woodsman poet. "These high operas are too thrillin'." But those who stared at Abe promptly saw that his attention was not fixed on matters within, but without. "He heard something," muttered one of the men. "He's got ears like a cat, anyway." If the giant had heard something it was plain that he heard it again, for he dropped his knife and scrambled to his feet. "Me go! Yes!" he roared, gutturally; and, obeying some mysterious summons, his haste showing its authority, he ran out of the camp. "Catch that fool!" yelled the boss. But the first of those who tumbled out into the dingle after him were not quick enough. The night and the swirling storm had swallowed him. A few zealous pursuers ran a little way, trying to follow his tracks, lost them, and then came back for lanterns.